


someone will remember us i say (even in another time)

by revolutionarygold



Series: a charming young (wo)man [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: College AU, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Politics, Too Sapphic To Live (not literally everyone is going to live), alternating povs between grantaire and enjolras, and plans on using it but Only In This Fic, political activism and portraits as viable methods of flirting: an alternative title, probably more characters and relationships to come, the author is getting a degree in classical studies, they're lesbians harold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-26 00:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionarygold/pseuds/revolutionarygold
Summary: The woman - they might be mostly-underclassmen in this class, but she is a woman, a goddess among college students, an angel in this lecture hall - stops in the doorway, scans the room, and when she looks at Grantaire, the dark haired girl sits up, suddenly electrified. A distant part of her recognizes that she’s actually looking at the seat next to her, the empty one, but she prefers to think about this woman who is now click click click making her way up the staggered steps as walking towards her, not towards the only empty seat. When she’s three aisles down, Grantaire realizes that she’s wearing bright red heels, which provides a reason for the click, but also her opinion of this mystery woman just went up about five notches. Anyone who bothered with heels before 6pm was a stronger person than she was. Grantaire figures she probably looks more than a little in love with this mystery woman by the time she pulls the seat out and sits down. Maybe that’s why the blonde woman looks at her, quizzically.a modern college au where enjolras and grantaire are in lesbians for each other





	1. august

**Author's Note:**

> Fast notes: Imagine them how you want, though I've fallen in love with the-march-hair's vesion of Grantaire and that Definitely bleeds, but here's the rundown on pronouns
> 
> Enjolras: she/her; Grantaire: she/her; Combeferre: he/him; Courfeyrac: he/him; Bahorel: he/him; Jehan: they/them; Joly: they/them; Bossuet: he/him, Musichetta: they/her; Feuilly: they/them; Eponine: she/her; Marius: he/him; Cosette: she/her

When she walks into the room, Grantaire sat up. She flips her locks out of her face and waits, transfixed.

The only empty seat in the room is next to her, and she has never been more thankful for the understaffed liberal arts college than she is right now.

The woman - they might be mostly-underclassmen in this class, but _she_ is a woman, a goddess among college students, an angel in this lecture hall - stops in the doorway, scans the room, and when she looks at Grantaire, the dark haired girl sits up, suddenly electrified.  
A distant part of her recognizes that she’s actually looking at the seat next to her, the empty one, but she prefers to think about this woman who is now _click click click_ making her way up the staggered steps as walking towards her, not towards the only empty seat.  
When she’s three aisles down, Grantaire realizes that she’s wearing bright red heels, which provides a reason for the click, but also her opinion of this mystery woman just went up about five notches. Anyone who bothered with heels before 6pm was a stronger person than she was.  
Grantaire figures she probably looks more than a little in love with this mystery woman by the time she pulls the seat out and sits down. Maybe that’s why the blonde woman looks at her, quizzically.

If Grantaire had thought it bliss when she was looking in her general vicinity, being the actual target of those piercing blue eyes was more than a little overwhelming.  
She glanced down at the paper in front of Grantaire - already covered in half-sketches and stupid doodles - and Grantaire grabbed for it, feeling the flush creeping up her neck. Even if people couldn’t see her blush under her dark skin, she still felt it burn under her skin.  
“This is Intro to Western Politics, right?” Angel Woman asked - her voice was everything Grantaire could have asked it to have been, low and thrilling, like Grantaire was the only person in the world who could answer this question, like the world would end if she didn’t know this thing only Grantaire could give her.  
“Uh, yea. This is it.”

The blonde woman nodded once, perfunctory, and in that motion, Grantaire knew her fate was sealed. She would give anything to have the opportunity to get to know this woman better.

“I’m,” and she cleared her throat, “I’m Nicolette Grantaire. Most people call me Grantaire, though.”  
“Enjolras.”  
“It’s nice to meet you.”

There’s a beat of silence, and when it’s just about to approach awkward, Enjolras asks if she knows anything about the professor - she does not, but her friend Bahorel has taken a class with him before and spoke very highly of Dr. Lamarque - and that conversation carries them until the man himself walks into the lecture hall, looking vaguely harried and distracted until he drops a stack of papers on the lectern.  
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Dr. Lamarque, welcome to Western Politics. If you aren’t supposed to be here, either add in the class on your phone right now or walk out - I won’t be offended either way.”

No one does anything, and he nods - it’s a motion that is strangely like the one Enjolras just made, which is sort of funny - and starts to pass around the syllabus.  
“We’re going to do an icebreaker so that I don’t have to lecture today. So let’s snake around the room, say your name, year, and major and say why you took this class and what you want to get out of it.”  
There’s a general noise of assent - Grantaire has already had two first day of semester lectures and they’re terrible - so Dr. Lamarque gives a flash of a smile.  
“Well, I’m Dr. Lamarque. I’m a tenured professor, I got all of my degrees in Political Science, and my research interests are in organization of political movements, especially before they move mainstream. I’m in this class because I teach it…”

They moved throughout the class, and Grantaire completely spaced out in favor of finishing the drawing she’d started before class started - before Enjolras had come in. It was turning into some sort of magical girl, which probably made sense, because her and Bahorel had just binged the entirety of Sailor Moon and Sailor Moon: Crystal over the last few weeks of summer. This particular scout was beginning to look eerily like Jehan.

Eh. They’d probably be into that.

She was just about to start shading the flowers in their hair, maybe caption it with a catch-phrase, when Enjolras started to talk again, loudly and clearly as a church bell rather than the low thrill Grantaire had heard earlier. This was just as beautiful.  
“My name is Alexandrine Enjolras, I’m a sophomore political science major, I’m in this class because someone fucked up my paperwork to bring in the credit for it, but I hope to come out of it a better and more informed citizen with valuable networking skills and connections both in and outside of my department and a good core basis of what my field is and entails.”

The smattering of laughter at her admission why she was here died out with the rest of it, the thing that sounded almost like a job interview.

“‘M Nicolette. Grantaire. Sophomore fine arts major, needed this class to fill a gen ed. Maybe I’ll draw some pretty pictures during lecture, though!”

The laughter was back, and luckily Dr. Lamarque was one of the ones laughing, and Grantaire leaned back in her chair, smiling. She glanced over at Enjolras - Alexandrine, apparently, but she’d introduced herself by her last name - to see if maybe by some miracle she was one of the people laughing as well.  
The blonde woman - and now Grantaire had a good view of the gold curls tumbling down her back, and god, could she try to tone down the brightness a little bit, there was no way this could be road-safe - had turned to get the stack of syllabi from the person across the walkway. She took one and passed the stack to Grantaire without sparing a look for her, opting instead to start pouring over the packet.  
Grantaire took one, flipped it over, pleased to find a blank page, and started to draw an avenging angel.

* * *

 Wednesday, Grantaire found herself in the Intro to Western Politics lecture hall with her knee bouncing wildly. The class is starting to fill up - by two minutes until class time, there is exactly one seat open, and it is, once again, the one next to her. She grins to herself, is still grinning when Enjolras slips in, _click click click_ ing her way to the seat.  
They don’t say anything to each other - Enjolras pulls out a binder and an assortment of pens, flips to some blank paper and Grantaire digs out the syllabus from the previous class period to continue the drawing on the back - but suddenly the bouncing knee stills.

* * *

Fridays are their days for discussion, when they talk about the readings in political thought that they were responsible for. Grantaire likes these types of classes best, because it’s easy to fake your way through a discussion to look prepared with minimal work. She’s scanning the handout of selections from Plato, Locke, and Rousseau quickly to see if anything jumps out at her - man, these dudes really hated women, didn’t they - and she almost misses the sound of Enjolras’ heels because she’s reading.  
Almost is, of course, the operative word here.

She looks up to see the blonde woman making her way to the seat next to Grantaire (she must have a class right before this one because she’s always the last one to enter the lecture hall) but Enjolras is staring at her phone, frowning and beginning to type furiously.

She’s wearing bright red lipstick, curved in a fierce frown, and Grantaire stares for maybe a moment too long, because Enjolras looks up at her, and suddenly she is scowling at Grantaire, and the other woman is maybe a little dumbstruck.  
“What.”  
“I- uh- everything okay?”  
“Peachy,” Enjolras grit out, locking her phone and shoving it somewhere in her backpack, “It’s discussion today, right?”  
“Yeah, the- the Plato and Locke and Rousseau readings.”

She mutters something under her breath, and Grantaire thinks it might be something like _great, just what I need, more men telling me how to live my life_ , and if she hadn’t already been sold, she would have been just then.  
But Enjolras pulls out the reading, and of course it’s highlighted - annotated in her tight scrawl, too - Grantaire thinks she’s maybe too excited for this discussion.

Twenty minutes later, she has been proven completely and totally right.

“Rousseau was influential in his day, but there’s absolutely no reason for us to view him as revolutionary or groundbreaking anymore - his political theory is just representative democracy, and he doesn’t get points for being self-aware enough to call elected official aristocrats - considering just how much of a traditionalist he is.”  
“Care to elaborate on that, Enjolras?” Dr. Lamarque asked, and Grantaire was far enough away that she wasn’t sure if the spark in his face was real or if she was just projecting.  
“He hated women, thought they were supposed to stay home with the children. Not only is that reprehensible, it’s anti-democratic. Women are citizens as much as men, and deserve to be apart of the process more than raising the next male citizens.”

Without really realizing it, Grantaire’s hand shot up.

“Grantaire, please.”  
“So we dismiss everything a philosopher said because of his prejudices of the time?”  
“Yes.”  
“Without a lot of these figures, we never would have gotten to this point today-”  
“And we can acknowledge the contributions of sexist, racist old men without giving them credence today. By removing them from our political vernacular, we allow for new and marginalized voices to be heard, as well as voices that they themselves marginalized. Staying with Rousseau, women in the French Revolution were incredibly active and influential for the early revolutionary period before they got marginalized and sidelined by the Jacobins, which they justified by citing Rousseau. We need to focus on promoting marginalized voices, not remembering dead men who have outlived their political usefulness.”

Grantaire thinks maybe she could listen to Enjolras talk like this for ever, and she’s sure she looks a little dreamy when the blonde woman looks at her after Lamarque has called on someone else to contribute.  
But Enjolras, who looks like she might be about to say something, is drawn back into the class discussion, her hand shooting back up the minute the kid who went after her finished talking.

* * *

It’s Friday, which means there’s going to be a campus-wide event on the commons. It’s being put on by the housing department, which means there will be free food. There is free food, which means Grantaire is walking around the Activities Fair before heading home to her and Bahorel’s (and Jehan’s, who as good as lives there) apartment. It’s fun to be surrounded by people without having to interact with them more than getting to just grab the candy and pens off the tables while the club presidents are giving their spiels to other people.

She’s rounding the end of the loop, about to head out, when she sees a familiar head of blond curls.

Enjolras, of all people, is manning a booth - unsure if she’s wearing her heels, though Grantaire really hopes she’s committed to them - with her hair twisted up in an alligator clip. A few strands have escaped, curling up in the air around her head. From behind, it almost looks like a halo.  
Grantaire can see that she’s gesturing widely. Without really thinking, she starts to dart across the lawn of the commons to emerge on the sidewalk where Enjolras’ booth is.

It’s a folding card table, like everyone else’s, but there’s a red flag hanging from the front that has been painted to say “Friends of the ABC.” Grantaire at first thinks maybe that they’re some sort of literacy advocacy group - maybe they work with underprivileged kids? - but then she sees the pamphlets on the table.  
Everything. They cover everything. They have handouts for women’s shelters, for LGTB hotlines, for scholarship funds, for local farms, for voter registration, cards that have senators and representatives’ numbers on them, for low-income health clinics - that’s just what she can see on top. There are so many more.  
The man Enjolras is talking to right now, who is making her hand gestures and her smile (she can see it now, her real true smile, and it’s a little disarming) so wide is almost unnervingly tall and (much more comfortingly) dark, nearly as dark as she is, with wide glasses and an approachable face. She glances up. His hair is a short puff - natural but low maintenance.

He passes muster.

He notices her before Enjolras does, clears his throat and turns towards her.

“Hey! I’m Combeferre, this is Enjolras-”  
“I know,” Grantaire interrupts, and then winces, “sorry. Didn’t mean to- yeah. We have Lamarque’s class together.”

Something like - understanding? Realization? - dawns in Combeferre’s face.

“So you heard 10 Reasons Why Rousseau Is Terrible, Stop Booing Me I’m Right today, huh?”

Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras, who looks a little off-put at being interrupted and then now called out, has the good grace to blush a little. Or maybe that’s just sunburn from being outside so much.  
“Yeah, something like that!”  
“Listen, he is-”  
“Yes, Enj, I know,” Combeferre says smoothly, with a practiced ease that makes Grantaire think maybe they have this conversation often. He looks at Grantaire, more than a little conspiratorial, “I heard the rant last night. Helped refine some of the talking points.”  
“You just made fun of me the whole time.”  
“And you’re a better speaker for it.”  
“Doubtful.”

Grantaire laughs again, and Combeferre joins her - Enjolras does too, if only a half beat too late.

“Tell me about your alphabet friends, then. You don’t have anything for me to steal, but you got me to stop, so I owe you a chance to pitch yourselves to me.”  
Combeferre gives Enjolras a sideways glance, and the golden girl straightens herself. Her face melts into something different - something more like the church bell voice she used in class discussion today. Grantaire wishes she had something to sketch with other than bad free pens, because this facial expression, this is what she got into art to capture. The sublime.  
“The Friends of the ABC are a social activism group focused on advocacy both on campus and in the community. We have several partners in on campus groups and community nonprofit organizations, but we like to help breathe new life and provide a diverse voice for all the intersections of these efforts and platforms…”

And she keeps going, keeps talking about what they’ve been doing and what they plan to do in the upcoming semester and how they’re going to accomplish it, and Grantaire lets her words of hope and sunlight wash over her. It’s been a lot time since she’s met this much idealism in the flesh - it’s a nice change of pace.  
“...So our meetings are every Sunday evening, and sometimes we meet during the week if we’re working on a particular initiative, but that’s always determined on a case-by-case basis at our normal Sunday meeting. If you want to sign up for our email list, the computer by Combeferre has a spreadsheet you can just enter it into.”  
“When and where on Sundays?”

Enjolras looked maybe a little surprise - she wore her emotions on her face, that could be a problem if she ever planned to go into politics, which Grantaire had a sneaking suspicion that she might - but there was a self-satisfied smile growing on her face. She was still wearing that red lipstick, and nothing could make Enjolras’ smile brighter, but it did make it all the more striking.  
“We meet at the Musain. Meetings start at 8pm, but usually a group of us will meet there for dinner at about 6:30 or 7.”

Grantaire filed that away - she was aware of the Musain, Bahorel had talked about it a few times, but had never been there herself - and smiled back at Enjolras.  
“Looking forward to it.”

Enjolras continued to smile, and it looked like she was about to say something when Combeferre - who had disappeared to talk to someone else during Enjolras’ explanation - called her over and the blonde winced in apology before making her way over to her friend.

She was still wearing her heels.

Grantaire smiled and turned to walk away from the booth of the Friends of the ABC, sticking her hands in the pockets of her denim vest and whistling as she left.

* * *

“You’re smiley,” Bahorel commented almost as soon as he came into the apartment. Grantaire was in the living room, unexpectedly, with her easel up and the windows all the way open. She was painting the sunset, an open bottle of wine on the table that held her paints and palette.  
“It was a good day.”  
“I’m glad,” he hummed. Bahorel was the only person Grantaire knew who was able to hum whole sentences, rumble them in his chest and into the world like the purring of a very large cat.

He dropped his bag and keys in a heap on the coffee table Grantaire had shoved out of the way for her easel. When he’d moved into the kitchen, he called back out to his roommate:  
“Eyo, Grand R, Jehan is coming over when they get out of class. Get a glass so you don’t finish that bottle off before they get here - you know how excited they were about the bear wine.”

It’s true enough. Jehan excited is not a rare sight, but Jehan disappointed is all the more heartbreaking for how often they are excited.  
“Bring it back out when you come out? I just got this color mixed and the light’s gonna change.”

Bahorel just laughed - and Grantaire wasn’t sure why, because she was 100% in earnest about the light changing - but he brought out the requested cup. It was plastic and they had definitely stolen it from some campus event last year, but Grantaire poured the wine in it before handing the bottle off to Bahorel. They had definitely only bought it because of the bear it had on the label, and because it had been less than $10 for the bottle, but it wasn’t the worst thing Grantaire had ever drank before.

Jehan burst through the door sometime later - the light had changed completely by then, but Grantaire was done with the sky and started to paint the land underneath it.  
“That is absolutely grand, R!” they effused upon seeing the painting.  
“Here’s hoping my professor agrees,” she deadpanned.  
“If they don’t they’re an absolute fool- oh, did you open the bear wine!”  
“Yup,” Grantaire told them, popping the P, “there’s more in the kitchen.”

Jehan disappeared into the kitchen and came back out holding a plastic cup with the Avenger’s on it.

“So tell me about your day,” Grantaire prompted - because clearly, they had had a day that excited them and wanted to talk about it - and sure enough, that was all it took for Jehan to burst into a soliloquy about all the people they’d met at the Activities Fair, and how they hadn’t even known about the poetry club, and and and

Grantaire just laughed, content to allow Jehan’s freshman enthusiasm fill her for a while. They had gone to high school together - one of those schools for arts students, for child prodigies. Jehan, a year younger, had been something of a lost duckling when they showed up halfway through their sophomore year and attached themselves to Grantaire even though she had been in the art program and Jehan had been a pianist.  
When Grantaire had graduated and gone to college for painting, Jehan had visited as often as they could manage in between the demanding performance schedule their parents insisted on. They had been accepted into the university no problem; choosing to pursue English Literature and turn down the Piano Performance scholarship had been Jehan’s biggest act of rebellion since cutting their own hair with safety scissors when they were six.

“-met your friend!”  
“...What? Sorry I- checked out.”  
“I think I met your friend today! The one from your politics class?”  
“You met- Enjolras?”  
“You’re right. She’s a little terrifying. But I think what they’re doing - combining all the parts of activism like that - is really cool.”  
“Yeah,” Grantaire said, distractedly. She’d gone almost a whole two hours without thinking about Enjolras’ golden hair or red lipstick or the click of her heels and now-

She stopped painting, abruptly, looked at it-

It was a canvas awash with golds and reds and blacks.

Damn it.

She threw down her paintbrush with maybe a little more force than was necessary, but Jehan didn’t question it. They also didn’t question it when Grantaire started to pack up her art supplies, or when she disappeared into the kitchen and reemerged with a newly opened bottle of wine. Not the bear wine, one of their normal bottles; something she could drink straight from the bottle without anyone getting onto her. And she did.

“Bahorel!” she called out, “Jehan’s here! Wake up!”

It was no secret that if Bahorel wasn’t actively engaged in doing something, he was asleep. Much like an on-off switch, Bahorel was known to fall asleep at a moment’s notice. Luckily, he could wake up just as easily.  
When he emerged from his room, his mane of hair was mangled and ratty, but that was the only sign he’d just woken up - that, and the fact his tanktop had gotten twisted almost backwards on him.  
“You guys started drinking without me?”  
“Bahorel. You could be insulted and hurt about it, or you could go do two shots of tequila to catch up with us and then proceed to get hilariously wine drunk with us so we can finally finish Sailor Moon.”

He stopped mid word, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. He nodded, slowly, looking deep into Grantaire’s eyes before kissing her loudly on the forehead.

“This is what makes you so Grand, R.”  
“One day you guys are going to get sick of that joke.”  
“Unlikely.”

And all of them laughed as Bahorel disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of two shots being taken in rapid succession - because Bahorel could do nothing quietly - was heard, and then he came back out holding his own bottle of wine, draping himself across the couch as Jehan pulled up Hulu on the small TV. They had to all cuddle together to see it all, but Grantaire was pretty sure they would have ended up looped together like this even if they had a wall-to-wall sized TV.  
She would have it no other way.


	2. september

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is sure that she can take over the mantle of the Amis, but it's also a little terrifying.

It’s the first meeting of the ABC of the semester, and Enjolras is uncharacteristically nervous. She feels flat-footed, unprepared, ridiculous - which is dumb because she's been acting president for, like, four weeks - but they hadn't been really active in that time, so maybe it's all been a sham and a fluke and she's too young, too inexperience, too- too-

She stops the train of thought before it can continue. It's not useful to get all worked up right before the meeting - it's important, yes, because this group means  _so much to her_ , she has to do right by it, but she can't do right by it if she's spiralling into panic. They're going to discuss what the group is and has been, and they're going to set up officer elections, and they're going to talk about community updates.  _Just three things,_ Enjolras tells herself in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Combeferre. 

So she squares her shoulders, runs her hand in her hair to make sure it keeps its volume throughout the night and slips into her heels.

Typically, she doesn’t wear them to meetings. It’s supposed to be a safe space, a place where she doesn’t have to have the reassuring click in her ears to make her feel powerful, but it’s the first meeting she’s leading, personally, by herself, after having spearheaded the recruiting effort. She knows all the returning members that will be there - all of them except those who graduated - but she hopes deeply, _deeply_ , that more will show up. (Her heels will buffet the disappoint if they don't.)

She takes a breath in, holds it for a moment, and releases it. She shoulders on her backpack and leaves her room.

“Combeferre! Are you ready?”  
“Almost!” her roommate shouts back. He doesn’t currently hold any official role in the organization - he stepped in as treasurer last semester when the original graduated early and left the city unexpectedly - but he’s been her partner-in-crime since they were eight. Combeferre knows her better than anyone else, and vice versa. It was never a question as to if he would help her with this transition.  
“We’re going to be late!”  
“We have almost two hours before the meeting starts, Enj.”  
"You know for a fact that meetings actually begin at 6:30-”  
“Enjolras, if you aren’t careful, I’m going to have a serious reconsideration of my outfit. Maybe I need to change. Maybe I should be a little more formal on the evening we elect officers.”

She whines, loud and high pitched, in the back of her throat.

“I’m teasing, Lex, c’mon-” he says as he comes out of the bathroom, finishing the fold in his shirt sleeve before he looks up to see his best friend standing at the door, keys in hand, _fidgeting._

She bristles at the childhood nickname.

“Woah, E, is everything okay?”  
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be. Would be better if we were on the road.”  
“You’re in your heels,” he points out.  
“Officer elections, as you said,” she argues back. He raises an eyebrow. Enjolras stares back, challenge in the set of her brows.

After a moment, he gives in first.

“Come on. Let’s go, we still have to pick up Courfeyrac.”  
“I don’t understand why he won’t just move in with us if he insists we take him everywhere we go. It would be so much simpler and more convenient.”  
“His parents pay for the apartment, he has to live there.”  
“They could pay for our apartment?”  
“You know that’s not even a little bit how this works, Enjolras.”

They’ve had this argument a million times, and the familiarity of it - the click in her ears - calms her down. By the time they get to Courfeyrac’s apartment, just a few buildings over from their own, she has regained her composure to the extent that when Courfeyrac, half a head shorter than Enjolras and almost a full two shorter than Combeferre, attacks them with his famously tight hugs, she doesn’t lose her balance at all.

“Finally! I was worried you’d forgotten me!”  
“As if we could, I can’t concentrate when I can’t smell hair gel anymore.”

Courfeyrac gasps, faux offended - but his hair is spiked tonight to impress all the new friends he’s going to make, so he doesn’t have much of an argument to make against her. Enjolras rolls her eyes and checks the time on her phone.

“C’mon, let’s go. We gotta save the table.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at each other, amusement in Courfeyrac’s eyes and exasperation in Combeferre’s, but neither say anything; safer not to, when she’s wound up like this.

The three of them finally head out for the Musain, Combeferre and Courfeyrac walking together and chatting about their first week of back between themselves and Enjolras two steps ahead of them, tension in the entire line of her body.

* * *

Enjolras beats them into the Musain by a full forty-five seconds. She’s already talking with the manager - who is different than the one last semester - when the two boys walk in. They loiter near the door, still quietly engrossed in their conversation, while Enjolras explains that they’re from the group that uses the backroom every Sunday.

The manager is frowning and doesn’t look impressed by Enjolras’ famous charm, though in his defense, Enjolras doesn’t feel particularly charming tonight.

“You’re two hours early.”  
“Our standing reservation is from 6:30 to 10.”  
“But your meetings are from 8 to 10.”  
“The business part of our meetings starts at 8, many of us meet earlier than that to eat dinner here, and it’s always been open to us to use so we don’t have to change tables midway through the night.”

“She’s right,” a waitress chimes in from where she’s clearing dishes off a table; Enjolras is relieved to hear Musichetta in this instance more than she ever has been before, “they’re good for business - always tip well, order a lot of food and drink.”

“We can’t have the back room tied up for almost four hours,” the manager insists.  
“There are no other groups large enough to use the backroom here right now,” Enjolras argues, trying to keep her voice level and civil, “we aren’t going to be tying things up-”  
“There aren’t enough of you here to use the backroom anyway,” the manager interrupts and Enjolras’ jaw twitches from the effort of holding her tongue but _god_ she hates being interrupted more than she hates anything else, “if it’s just the three of you. If more of you show up, we’ll _talk_ about moving you before your meeting starts. You have the room from 8 to 10. Stick with it, missy.”

He walks away at that, back into the kitchen - _no doubt to yell at some poor, underpaid workers for being overworked even though it’s his own fault_ , Enjolras’ mind hisses - and the blonde woman is left there, her throat tightening and her hands purposefully relaxed and she's seething and trying, desperately, to look like she isn't. 

“You good, babe?” Musichetta asks, putting a hand on her arm. Enjolras nods, once, moving out of their reach. She takes a breath and forces it through her body, forces her muscles to relax, before she speaks. It feels less like a compromise and more like a concession. She hates herself for it.   
“Fine, thanks. He always this much of a dick?”  
“Unfortunately!” the dark haired woman says, much too cheerfully, “I’ll put you guys at the big booth - have Joly text me the _minute_ it’s full and I’ll move you back to the back room.”  
“Thank you, Chetta,” Courfeyrac says; both he and Combeferre, having overheard the conversation, have approached where Enjolras is still standing at the bar. Musichetta winks at them and herds them back to the booth so she can take their drink orders.  
“Waters all around?” she asks, and the disappears after hearing the general noises of assent.

The table is silent for a moment and Enjolras makes the conscious effort to not have her shoulders tense back up around her ears.

“Enj?”  
“Yeah?”  
“You good?”  
“Why wouldn’t I be?”  
“I mean,” Courfeyrac drawls, “you did just kind of get-”  
“He was highly unprofessional, especially with how much time and money we spend here,” Combeferre smoothed over.  
“I don’t care - I don’t - Ferre, I don’t care that we’ve spent at least five hours here every week for the past year, or how much money we spend here, or-”

She cuts herself off, because she’s about to get worked up, and if she gets worked up, she won’t be able to do anything she needs to do tonight, but he’d interrupted her to be dismissive and condescending and _missy_ rings in her ears in the silence she leaves.

He might have treated Combeferre like that, but he definitely wouldn’t have treated Courfeyrac that way and she's so exhausted of having to prove herself to every goddamn  _person_

Combeferre slips his hand into hers and squeezes. The knot in her chest loosens just a little bit, and then Musichetta brings drinks by and the coaster she lays down in front of Enjolras has both a heart and a smiley face drawn onto it, and the knot loosens more.

They’re halfway into the meal - Enjolras is stealing Courfeyrac’s fries because she’s still nervous, even if she isn’t as mad as she was - when Joly and Bossuet show up. They spend an inordinate amount of time deciding what to order so that Musichetta will have an excuse to stay around the table for longer so Boss can keep kissing her hand and Joly can keep faux-swooning when Chetta ruffles their hair.

“Jolllly, you would not believe the treatment we’ve faced,” Courfeyrac starts, after Musichetta has left and Bossuet and Joly are returned to their normal functionality.  
“It’s fine,” Enjolras cut him off.  
“Enj, it was-”  
“Fine.”  
“But-”  
“Courf.”

There is no room for argument in her tone - she makes sure of that.

Combeferre’s hand is still in hers, and he squeezes, briefly, before asking Joly about the biology class they take together. She allows the conversation to wash over her, allows herself to get brought into an intense game of tic-tac-toe with Bossuet, smiles at Courfeyrac when he starts to make up translations for the words Combeferre uses that none of them but Joly understand. Musichetta comes by more than is strictly necessary to refill their drinks and to flirt with Boss and Joly. It also meant that Enjolras had to excuse herself to use the restroom more than once.

On the third such occasion - they had over an hour still until the actual meeting time, and still it was only the five of them gathered - she came back to two new faces. Or, one new face and one vaguely-familiar face. He had been at meetings a few times; they’d never interacted, but she’d seen him talking with last year’s president more than once. He had a kind face. The other person was smaller, delicate almost, with the wide eyes of a freshman. She doesn’t remember ever looking that small, but she probably did.

She smiles, large and easy and faked, and sticks out a hand to the large man.

“Hey, I’m Enjolras. I think we’ve met a few times?”

He claps it readily, matching her smile with an equally large grin.

“Bahorel! I think we might have, I did a lot of work with community outreach last year for a lot of orgs - but I meet a lot of people a lot of times, so we’ll say this is our first meeting. For posterity. This is my friend Jehan, they’re a freshman, and they’re very excited to meet everyone.”

And just like that, the group of assembled sophomores (Combeferre is the same age, though he has enough credits to register as a junior) descends on the precious freshman in front of them, forgetting that they were there literally four months ago. And Jehan is precious; they had flowers braided into their hair, a large multi-colored plastic windbreaker, a crop top that had a pattern Enjolras didn’t have the fashion vocabulary for and could best be described as “exciting,” and yellow harem pants. But they were so easy in their own clothing that it was easy to look at the god-awful color combinations to see the smile under it all.

“Joly, are we at full capacity yet?” Courfeyrac asked, trying hard to sound like he asked it oh-so-casually. Enjolras was standing still, but Bahorel had crammed in on the same side as Bossuet and Joly, and Jehan was perched on the end next to Combeferre.  
“Unfortunately, no,” Joly sighed, dropping their head onto their hand, “these are supposed to be able to seat eight.”  
“Jehan, friend, we’re all about to become _very_ good friends. Scoot in,” Courfeyrac declared, pressing farther against the wall. Combeferre obliged, and Jehan moved in closer, and now it was Enjolras’ turn to perch on the edge of the booth.

Courfeyrac went suspiciously quiet.

“...Courf?” Enjolras asked, “Everything good?”

He didn’t answer.

“He’s just texting someone, telling him to hurry up and meet us here- who’s Marius though?” Combeferre, who was partially sitting on Courfeyrac’s lap, could easily read the phone.  
“Oh!” That was Jehan, next to her, suddenly sitting up, “Marius Pontmercy?”  
“Yeah! He’s in one of my theater classes, he said he would come to the meeting at least. Wasn’t sure about dinner, but I’m pretty sure I could get him here earlier if I asked _really nicely._ ”

Bahorel looked between the four people on the booth across from him before he looked at Enjolras with a question in his face.

“Didn’t you guys used to get the back room…?”  
“Yes. We still get to, but, apparently,” and Enjolras hadn’t realized she was still mad about this until she heard the sharpness of her own voice, thought her friends had eased it, but the reminder, the humiliation of being questioned like she was lacking even if she _knew_ Bahorel was better than that, coupled with the anxiety still bubbling in her chest brought back her previous anger, “we don’t get to use it before meeting times, even though this is during our on-paper meeting times, and we have enough people to use the backroom.”

Bahorel winced.

“Change of management?”  
“Apparently.”  
“Shit, man, that sucks. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s fine. If we get two more people here, Musichetta will move us back.”

Bahorel nodded, slowly, before pulling out his phone.

“My roommate said she was coming. I’ll tell her to come faster.”  
“I’d appreciate it.”

* * *

They get moved back forty five minutes before the meeting is supposed to start - Marius, Courfeyrac’s little duckling (as he insists on calling him), shows up about ten minutes after Courfeyrac texts him and the poor thing is so small and overwhelmed by the group of them that Enjolras feels bad that Courfeyrac is the first one who met him and not someone like Joly or Combeferre.

Enjolras is beginning to get antsy, her leg bouncing in frustration, annoyance, how loud it is with everyone all piled up on each other like this, and she has nothing against Jehan (they’re a good kid, truly) but she wishes she still had Combeferre’s hand in hers.

The door swings open and she turns to look - hoping, praying, that it’s one of theirs. And she’s rewarded. Feuilly is rushing in, still in their uniform shirt with their nametag on, and they’re nearly tripping over themselves to apologize for being late and they’re immediately drawn into the laughter of the group. Enjolras stands abruptly, allowing Feuilly to take her place, and she goes to find Musichetta.

It’s not hard. They’re on their way to come check on the table for the fifth time in the past twenty minutes. They run into each other, almost literally.

“You’re at nine?” she asks, sounding almost a little amused.  
“We’re at nine.”  
“Well then, c’mon. We’re gonna reclaim our rightful place, yeah?”  
“Stick it to the man,” Enjolras agreed, faintly smiling, “When do you get off work?”  
“Right at 8, actually, so I’ll duck in right at the last minute.”  
“Good, I’d hate for you to miss the first meeting.”  
“You’re leading it?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Nervous?”  
“...A little.”

It feels like a weakness, admitting her nerves, but Musichetta has always been kind and supportive, understanding in a way that Combeferre can’t really be. She’s had the pressure of eyes watching for her to mess up, sneering at her because of her soft curls, smirking at the bright color of her lipstick, laughing at the high tenor of her voice.

The waitress smiles, crookedly.

“You’re the most qualified person in that room to do what you’re about to do, Enj. Remember that.”  
“...Thanks.”

And they both head back to the table to herd people into their usual backroom, and finally she feels like she can breathe because things are back on track. Stepping in is like stepping home. The wall covered in chalkboard paint still has Courfeyrac’s doodles from last May in the corner, and the box of chalk Combeferre had forgotten is propped against the wall. She’s pretty sure Musichetta had something to do with that, but it’s just another reason to love them.

* * *

Enjolras is sitting on the edge of the table, watching people trickle in. With room to breathe, she’s feeling a little less anxious and more just normal nervous. There are a few faces that she vaguely recognizes, a few who she met at the Activities Fair (and what a relief that is), a few returning members - Feuilly, bless them, who put them over the mark of people they needed, Eponine had slunk in with her permanently scowling face shocked into something...different, and she seemed preoccupied, but Enjolras wasn’t close enough to her to be able to figure out for what.

She looked at her clock. It was almost eight. Hopping down from the table, Enjolras tugged the sign in sheet out of her backpack to start it circulating through the room. She cleared her throat, just about to call everyone to order, when the door opened one final time - Musichetta, she thinks, having finagled her way out of the last minute and a half of her shift - but then Bahorel erupts with a cry of “Grand R!” and Jehan cheers too, and Enjolras turns to see the girl from her politics class come in, her dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail, looking like she’s not totally sure where she fits in even as she cheers Bahorel back.

It’s an odd look.

(Enjolras thinks maybe she understands that a little too well.)

Grantaire makes her way back to where Bahorel and Jehan are sitting, and Enjolras clears her throat again. Musichetta will slip in and it will be much less disruptive, so she’s okay to start. Combeferre smiles at her.

“Alright, well, it’s eight, so let’s go ahead and get this started,” her voice is strong, and for that, she is thankful, “Welcome to the first meeting of the Friends of the ABC of the semester. We are dedicated to providing intersectional support for activist groups on campus and in the community at the same time as we launch our own initiatives. We are an outspoken ally of the LGBT community, of racial minorities, of the economically underpriviledged. Where our political ideologies may differ on a personal basis, and our passion-projects may diverge, we are all united in a common cause for justice and equality. Bringing this first meeting to order is an honor and a privilege," she says, allowing the first real smile of the night to emerge, "and we have a couple things on the agenda today - mostly nominating officers and giving some updates from our community - but first…”

She sighs and looks at Courfeyrac, purposefully, fondly annoyed at this game of his. Luckily, he’s a quick boy, fast on the uptake.

“ABC!” he calls, sounding all together too excited.

“Bahorel, beloved of bats!”  
“Bossuet, bringer of bees!”  
“Combeferre, conneisseur of cannibalistic comedy.”  
“Courfeyrac, crack-a-lackin’ booty-packin’!” (There’s a brief cry for rules violation there, but Enjolras fills it in quickly, loudly-)  
“Enjolras, envoy of everyone.”  
“Eponine, emo-punk empress.”  
“Feuilly, fan for freedom from French fries!”  
“Joly, joyous jongleur jingling for Jolly Ranchers!”  
“Musichetta, mustachioed Marxist musician!”

The rest of the group laughed at each epithet, obviously more baffled and delighted than anything else. Enjolras takes her place at the front of the room again, and her smile is a little easier, little more natural this time.

“Courfeyrac appeased," he takes a ridiculous, theatrical boy even as she talks over his loud-kiss blowing, "Onto the next order of business: officer elections.”

* * *

When her and Combeferre and Courfeyrac come home, she feels lighter than she has in about three weeks. She kicks off her heels immediately after crossing the threshold of her home. She is currently the only one up for president of the organization, though nominations will remain open until the end of the meeting the following week; Courfeyrac and Marius are in friendly competition for vice president; Combeferre and Feuilly are doing the formalities of an election between them, even if everyone knows they’ll just end up being co-treasurers; Bahorel is unopposed to publicity chair; Musichetta stands for re-election in logistical coordinator. It’s the board of executives Enjolras could have only dreamed of - even if someone else wants the presidency and gets it over her, she is still absolutely enthused at the potential in this upcoming year.

“How’re you feeling, chief?” Courfeyrac asks when she drops onto the couch, “Pleased enough that you’ll drink with us?”

She thinks it over for a moment before answering.

“Pour me a glass of that one wine.”

Of course he knows what she’s talking about; Enjolras only drinks one kind of wine. He emerges from the kitchen with Enjolras’ requested glass of wine (in a wine glass covered in penguin stickers), a generous dosage of brandy for Combeferre (in one of the Avenger’s cups from Joly’s 19th birthday party), and a bottle of tequila for himself (with a minion shot glass).

When she sees the yellow shot glass, she sits up.

“No. No, Courf, no, you _promised-_ ”  
“I did get rid of that shot glass!” he crowed, dancing out of Enjolras’ reach, “ _This_ is a new one, because Bossuet loves me the most!”  
“Courfeyrac!” she shrieks.

He only laughs, takes a shot, refills it, and laughs some more.

“Combeferre, make Courf stop bullying me with the minions!”  
“He does have a certain freedom of expression.”  
“ _Combeferre!”_

Her boys only laugh at her, and Enjolras drops back onto the couch, covering her face with one of the throw pillows - partially out of indignation, partially to keep them from seeing her grin. It’s been a good evening, despite everything. She lets the last residue of anxiety dissipate and lets going of the remaining anger. She has her friends. They can change the world - they _will_ change the world.

* * *

In the morning, she enters the lecture hall and starts to head towards the seat by Grantaire without even stopping to see if anything else is available. Grantaire watches her come up the steps, her head propped up on her hand, a strange look on her face.

“Hey,” Enjolras greets as she sits down and starts to pull out her stuff, “it was nice to see you at the meeting last night. I hope you keep coming.”  
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Apollo.”

Enjolras freezes at that, looking up at Grantaire, slowly. She doesn’t seem to realize what she’s said, that strange look still on her face, and Enjolras hates that she can feel the tips of her ears burning. She also hates that she has no earthly clue _why._

“I’ll see you there, then,” she says, a little stilted, and she’s saved from further conversation by Lamarque coming in and starting class.

But it’s a little - she’s distracted during class. Aside from the fact that, for all his skill as an educator, the lecture is...less than thrilling - it’s just more about developments in Jacksonian democracy and, really, she’s still mad that she wasn’t able to get out of this class - she is...aware of the person next to her. More than she’s been aware of anyone, really. Grantaire is drawing - that’s not a surprise - but when Enjolras tries to make it out, all she can see is the curve of a circle and flower petals before one of Grantaire’s locks falls out from behind her ear and obscures Enjolras’ view of the drawings.

And then she finds something much more interesting to watch than the art: the artist herself.

Grantaire loops hair around her non dominant hand while she’s working, Enjolras learns. She bends over close to her paper, close enough to think that maybe she needs glasses and isn’t wearing them. She hums to herself, tuneless and senseless, as she works. Enjolras finds her eyes catching on Grantaire’s quick-moving hand as she draws on her notes. She swallows and tries to busy herself with her own note taking effort.

It’s useless. She more or less gives up on the lecture in favor of trying to watch Grantaire as surreptitiously as possible without her, like, noticing. More often than anything, her eyes drift back to Grantaire’s calloused hands, deft and clever in their construction and how they construct the drawings that crowd Grantaire’s page.

She passes the class period this way, surprised when she hears everyone else begin to pack up, and she scrambles to follow suit.

Grantaire remained in her seat even after Enjolras stood and the blonde woman is rooted in place for a moment, wanting to keep watch Grantaire draw - now that she’s stood, she can see that her tongue is poking out of her mouth while she’s concentrating and it’s one of the cutest things she’s seen in her whole life - but she shakes herself out of it, because she has a class after thing one and she has to book it to get there.

Enjolras is stuck on Grantaire’s hands for hours afterwards, though, no matter how much she’ll deny it.

* * *

The next meeting, there are no additions to the officer elections, so Bossuet passes out paper ballots and pens and collects them back up after everyone’s voted. They usually rely on a verbal vote, straight up and down, but for officers they’re always done secret ballot. He and Joly sit in the back, tallying votes for things that actually had a competitive race, and it takes all of about ten minutes to verify everything. Boss hands Enjolras the result sheet that’s been scrawled out on one of Joly’s post it notes that have been decorated in pastries and candies.

She clears her throat to bring everyone back to attention, and it feels good how easily everyone redirects their attention to her.

“Election results: President is Enjolras, thank you all, vice president is Courfeyrac-” he hugs Marius, kissing him on the head, and Marius looks amused rather than disappointed, which is good- “treasurer is Combeferre, Feuilly I look forward to seeing your version of his signature on budget acquisition forms this year (she pauses for a moment to allow people to laugh and to allow Feuilly to look bashful before she winks at them and continues to read), publicity chair is Bahorel, God help us all, and Musichetta is, blessedly, our logistical coordinator.”

She waits for a moment to see if anyone has any concerns or questions - requests to repeat aren’t uncommon in a group as noisy as this one - but there isn’t anything, so she folds up the paper and sticks it in her pocket. Enjolras crosses the room in three long strides (no heels tonight, she’s back in her element) and scoops up a piece of chalk easily, brandishing it out at the group of assembled college students.

“Though we as a group are all about intersectionality, we need to decide where to focus our attention for the upcoming semester.”

Combeferre stands and, once acknowledged, begins to speak: “I have been in communication with a group that promotes a single-payer health care system, they’ve requested our help with reaching a wider audience and maybe raising the profile of the platform a little bit.

Joly stands then, shifting a little bit to get their cane out from where it’s gotten twisted around the strap of Musichetta’s purse. Combeferre nods at them and sits.

“The university requires us to have health insurance but doesn’t offer any plans or anything. If you can’t afford your own health insurance, you get fined by the university. Maybe if we combine the issues, we can get some movement on the ground?”

Joly sits back down, so Enjolras takes back over, writing Single Payer on the chalkboard wall with something of a flourish.

“Combing a national issue with a local one is good; good work, Joly and Ferre. Does anyone else have a proposal?”

Jehan, who looked more than a little uncertain, stood, a hand creeping to their braid. Enjolras nodded at them.

“Um, during orientation we got information about sexual assault on campus but it...it was really...heteronormative?”

Enjolras nodded, already rolling her eyes - her class had gotten something similar the year before.

“Do we have any resources on campus? Could we provide some? I don’t think there’s a Pride group - I didn’t, um, see one, at least.”

And then Jehan sank back down to sit next to Grantaire, who patted them on the thigh comfortingly, and Enjolras had to force herself to not look at the hand there and instead focus on Jehan.

“There was a very small Pride group last year, but I think they’ve gone defunct. You’d have to check with the student association. We mostly do work with the community Pride. We function as a sort of defacto Pride group here - we ran all the on-campus Pride events last semester. Working as a LGBT resource center is a good idea though, God knows the university won’t provide one.”

There were a few more ideas thrown out: Musichetta spoke about sex workers and how vulnerable they are, Courfeyrac talked extensively about education access in underfunded school systems (like the one around their university), and Feuilly throws in a few words about food insecurity and food deserts, and then again spoke to talk about refugees and migrants displaced by Middle Eastern wars.

After that, Enjolras keeps the floor open for a little while longer. Then she steps back from the list, settling her hands on her hips as she looks at it.

“You know, we might be able to tackle a few of these rather than focusing on one,” she muses outloud to a general noise of consent, and she turns back around to see her friends - it’s a smaller group than was there the first meeting, but that’s to be expected, and their event attendance will be up from their meeting attendance - looking at her eagerly.

Or, well, most of them. Grantaire is looking down, drawing on the back of Jehan’s hand. It’s a little disappointing, and she can’t really put her finger on why.

“All in favor of putting our efforts in a few different areas this year, in addition to the work we’ll do with other organizations?” she calls, and Grantaire looks up a little at that, but then she’s right back down to Jehan’s hand-drawing among the aye voice votes. There are a few nay votes - Marius, Eponine, and Joly, and she’ll talk with them about their concerns afterwards - but the ayes have it so they break out into committees to start planning events and drives and Enjolras makes her rounds, getting drawn into discussions and planning processes. Her, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Musichetta need to sit down for lunch some day soon to figure out what their practical budget is going to look like-

“Apollo!”

That’s Grantaire’s voice, and she’s embarrassed by how quickly she turns around to catch her eyes. It’s almost immediately obvious that Grantaire is more than a little drunk, but she can’t look away.

“Do you have a concern, Grantaire?” she asked, trying to measure her voice as much as is possible.  
“Sure. What’s the point of all this?”  
“Promote education and awareness, give access to unreached populations-”  
“How’s that going to help them practically, though? Teach enough people about- about underfunded elementary schools and they’ll stop shooting black kids?”  
“Getting a foothold in prejudiced communities requires that we begin by breaking down preconceived notions that lead to the prejudice, which we do through education-”  
“And no one has an issue with how hands-off this approach is? No one wants to go into neighborhoods and do the work? Because people are all the same; they always have been. Convincing people set in their ways to change when they have no incentive to change is like expecting Caligula’s horse to be a good and just consul - appease the beast all you desire, feed it treats and braid its mane, but the moment you attempt to ride it where the both of you need to be, it bucks and throws you head over heels off its back. Why bother with the people who have created the conditions that force your activism? What do you hope to get out of this? Asking the people who hurt us to please not do that any longer? Have you not the stomach of a king of England, Apollo?”

It’s as direct a challenge as Enjolras has ever recieved, even if it’s slurred in places, and she’s never been one to step down from a challenge. She feels Combeferre grab her hand, but she shakes him off and takes a step closer toward where Grantaire has stood, swaying slightly but looking mostly coherent and breathing heavily.

“We do the work. We lift as many children out of the slums as we can. And until we get real policy changes, we shame the people who put them there by showing them exactly what they’ve done. We don’t feed the beast or whatever it was you said we would do - humans are logical creatures, capable of listening to reason and feeling compassion.”

Grantaire laughs. It’s the only sound in the now-silent backroom. Everyone is watching to see how this will turn out; Enjolras can feel all eyes resting on her shoulders.

“If your plans are dependent on _ration_ and _compassion_ and _humanity_ , then you have a whole separate storm of problems headed your way, Apollo.”  
“If we assume the worst of people, then there’s no reason to strive for better for anyone.”  
“Because you are destined to fail if you do not engage the problem; look to the roofs, Cassandra says, you miss the Furies gathered there.”  
“Grantaire, if you don’t believe in what we’re doing here, then you can see yourself out.”  
“Ah, but who would make your posters then?”

And she drops herself back into her seat, grabbing her marker off the table to return to Jehan’s canvas of a hand.

Enjolras stands there for a long moment, working her jaw, watching Grantaire draw. And then she spins on her heel to face Combeferre who is, annoyingly, right behind her. She shrugs off his hand and starts to ask what he thinks budgets will look like for this coming year.

* * *

That night, she spends almost half an hour complaining to Combeferre and Courfeyrac about Grantaire. She doesn’t mean to, it just keeps circling back to her sermon because Enjolras can’t stop it from replaying in her head on loop, like it’s some sort of tape-

“If she’s just going to be a disruption and contrarian, then it’s not wrong to ask her to leave - she doesn’t believe in what we do and she didn’t even want to join a committee, she showed up entirely too drunk to be of any sort of use-”  
“Lex,” Combeferre interjected, softly, reprimanding, “she’s not without a point. We don’t do a lot of first-hand work. You know that.”  
“If she wants us to do more boots-on-the-ground activism then she should suggest that in the forum we _provide_ -”  
“Probably, but you can’t kick her out just because she annoys you.”

Enjolras goes quiet for approximately two minutes. It’s enough time for Courfeyrac to breathe a sigh of relief and tentatively start a new topic of conversation. He and Ferre talk about a penguin documentary they both watched recently, but not together, for a little bit before she just can’t help it any longer-

“And people accuse me of abusing rhetoric! Who even talks like that? What happened to accessible speeches?”  
“Enjolras, _please_ ,” Courfeyrac whined, “can we just have a normal night in? Pretty please?”

She sighs, slouching deeper into her couch cushion.

“Fine.”

* * *

The next morning, Grantaire is there, right next to her, and Enjolras is unsure if she wants to remain mad or just ignore her all together. She’s landed somewhere on the ignore spectrum when she notices that Grantaire is, once again, drawing - but it’s not her usual flower-and-magical girl designs; it’s something that looks an awful like a logo that incorporates the ABC theme.

She doesn’t say anything about it, just continues to watch Grantaire draw out of the corner of her eye.

* * *

The arguments at meetings become something of a routine - Enjolras will be make a case for a policy or course of action, and then Grantaire will weigh in, and they’ll spar for a few minutes.

It makes her arguments stronger, but it also makes her beyond frustrated.

The complaints after meetings don’t change, much to Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s distress.

“Like, why is she here? Does she like to torment me? Does she like the satisfactions at getting a rise out of me?”

The next week:  
“Just because she has a _point_ doesn’t mean she has to be so _uncivil_ about it - and for Christ’s sake, does she have to show up to everything drunk? Where is she getting this alcohol from? It’s not like the cafe would sell it to her.”

The week after that:  
“Is it so hard to make a point without having to reference obscure Latin texts? I’ve been doing it for 19 years just fine so far!”

The week after _that:  
_“She doesn’t even pay attention except when she’s listening to criticize! All she does is sit and draw on Jehan or herself or Bahorel. You’d think she has something better to do than sit and draw on other people’s skin for two hours because she can’t be bothered to give a damn about what we’re trying to do.”

A full month after Grantaire's first tirade:  
“Is there any earthly reason to compare herself to Cassandra so much? That feels too much like giving yourself a nickname.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get some references for those Historical References, yea?
> 
> [Caligula](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caligula) was a real Roman emperor in the 1st century AD who really made his horse consul and whole bunch of other Wild stuff.  
> "I have the heart and stomach of a King, and of a King of England, too" is the quote Grantaire is paraphrasing, and it's from Queen Elizabeth I's supposed [speech to the troops at Tilbury](http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/tilbury.htm) while they were waiting for the invasion from the Spanish Armada. It's a pretty tight speech, tbh. I say supposed because there's some Controversy surrounding if she actually gave a speech or just distributed it for her officers to read or if someone else wrote it and she just claimed it yada yada yada [Cate Blanchett](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3Bq1h728X0) does a pretty cool rendition of it.  
> "look to the roofs, Cassandra says, you miss the Furies gathered there" is a reference to Cassandra's prophesying in Aeschylus's _Agamemnon_ (line 1190 or thereabouts, depending on your translation)
> 
> Not historical, but I'm pretty sure I took the line "Asking the people who hurt us to please not do that any longer?" from the West Wing.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a whole Host of thoughts about Enjolras and Grantaire being presented in a largely feminine manner because it seems to be pretty rare for this fandom, but rather than write meta essays about it, I just wrote a fic. It's fine. Don't worry about it. I was going to try and write all of it and post it in one big chunk but then I wanted validation and gratification early.
> 
> So updates will come as they come. You know. Whenever. I'm gonna try for a once every 2 weeks schedule but honestly? We'll hope and see. Prepare yourselves for a lot of Pining, a lot of Classical References, a lot of The Author Is Gay About Greek Heroines and Villainesses, and even more The Author Inserts Her Own Academic Research Into Her Fanfiction.
> 
> But if that isn't in the tradition of Victor Hugo, I don't know what is.
> 
> The title is a Sappho fragment, obviously.


End file.
